


Anniversary

by TheNinthBow



Category: (500) Days of Summer (2009), Warrior (2011)
Genre: Date Night, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 19:58:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNinthBow/pseuds/TheNinthBow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Tom realizes his and Tommy's first year anniversary is coming up, he goes a little overboard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anniversary

**Author's Note:**

> For Sibilantly. Who wanted another date night for these two.

It’s not as if Tom’s marked the date in his calendar or anything. Not yet, anyway. And really, he wouldn’t even know what day their first anniversary fell on. It’s not like he and Tommy actually had a clear cut line when they started dating, or fucking, or calling each other boyfriends. 

But he remembers the first time he and Tommy when to dinner and a movie and they were both very aware that they were together as a couple. (That date _is_ marked in his calendar.) And it had been, well… awesome. The only reason that Tom sees the date coming up now and it rings enough bells in his head for him to go back through his calendar to look it up is that it had been the first night when the weather had tipped away from the winter’s rainy season and begun to heat up. When he'd mentioned it, Tommy had surprised him by grinning and telling him winter had to come to an end at some point. So Tom knows they started dating (empirically) on the first day of spring. 

And that’s what has Tom staring down at his phone, the date March 20 completely blank but in all other senses completely loaded and suddenly looming in the back of his mind. 

“I know that look.” 

Rachel’s voice snaps Tom out of his thoughts. 

“Huh?” 

“I know that look,” she repeats. She’s parked on his sofa, where’s she’s got the Xbox controller in her hands and thumbing away at the controls. 

“You’re not even looking at me. How could you know what look I’ve got on my face. If there was one.” 

“But I can hear you thinking.” Her thumb does a rapid fire on a button. “And I know what that means. And don’t do it.” 

Tom frowns, clicks out of his calendar, and slides his phone back in his pocket. 

“You’re mental,” he tells her. 

“Which is why you come to your fourteen-year-old sister for relationship advice.”

Tom picks up the sock that’s somehow been left in the living room and throws it in her direction. The satisfaction he gets when she curses up a storm as her character dies is enough to drown out his disturbance at the new creativity she’s achieved with her insults. 

**

Tom’s learned to listen to Rachel on many things. Granted, he’s also learned through trial and error and through practical application and just plain luck or stupidity. But he’s learned and changed, and turned the gained knowledge into something that’s earned him a more solid footing where he stands. He’s learned to deconstruct his delusions about life and love and all that crap that got him in the perpetual clusterfuck he was in before he met Tommy. 

That doesn’t mean he still doesn’t have his moments. 

He’s wondering if this is one of those moments as he stares at the text he’s typed out to Tommy. He hasn’t been nervous about sending Tommy a text for months upon months. _You free tomorrow night? I was thinking dinner plans_.

He hits send before he can over think things and places his phone on his desk. Tommy’s in training right now, so Tom doesn’t expect an immediate reply. It doesn’t stop his foot from shaking under his desk though. 

When his phone vibrates forty minutes later, he knocks over his pencil holder trying to grab at it. 

_Practice over by 4_ , the text reads. _U hatching something, Hansen?_

Tom almost snorts, stops himself just in time. _No_. 

He gets a reply almost immediately. _U don’t have to plan a date to get in my shorts anymore, babycakes_. 

Tom does laugh then, and feels his face heat up when a few coworkers look his way. But he’s still smiling as he busies himself in blueprints for a few minutes until things die down and everybody’s concentrating on their own work again. Then he’s typing out, _I never had to in the first place_ , and sends one of the emoticons he’s teased Tommy about abusing in the past. 

_One two_ , Tommy replies. 

Tom grins. _Out for the count_ , he thinks, and ducks his head to hide his smile in case his boss should be looking over. But he delays work a little more and pulls up a Google search to look for a restaurant, something fun and new and a bit different. 

Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all. 

**

Italian. Everybody likes Italian food. And judging by the way Tom’s seen Tommy practically swallow a forkful of spaghetti down whole on the rare occasions he can eat all those carbs, Tommy’s no different. 

So when Tom stops them in front of Il Castello the next night, he turns to Tommy and grins, expecting a bit of pleased surprise that this is what Tom’s chosen for tonight. But Tommy’s glance flickers away from the script on the restaurant’s sign through the windows to the dim, candle-lit interior. 

“This is new,” he says, and Tom’s smile slips a little at the unsure cadence of his words. 

“Uh, yeah.” He clears his throat. “A co-worker recommended it when she heard I was planning dinner, and well. Figured we could give it a shot.” The lie is passable, he thinks. He doesn’t feel like admitting he’d found it on a site listing the city’s top ten romantic restaurants. But judging by the way Tommy slides his gaze to him, he doesn’t quite believe the explanation. 

Tom rolls his eyes. “C’mon,” he mumbles. And then he opens the door and holds it open for Tommy, and Tommy just looks at him. 

“I thought I already said I was a sure thing,” he says, but sidles through. It’s a tell to how amused he is that he actually smacks Tom’s bum on his way through the door. Tom huffs and shoves Tommy in the back when he passes before him. Tommy doesn’t stagger, not with his bulk, but at least he’s grinning now as they step up to the host. Who’s dressed in what Tom’s pretty sure is a tux and whose hair is greased back with pomade. 

“Welcome to Il Castello,” he says, and holy shit, he even has a real Italian accent. 

Tom glances at Tommy. He’s standing back a bit, his shoulders hunched under the dress jacket Tom had all but forced him into, and Tom swallows. 

“Hansen,” he says. He cringes inwardly when it comes out in a rush. “For two.” 

The man nods, barely looks at them as he pulls menus and leads them to a table. Tommy’s steps are slow, staggered enough that Tom ends up leading the way before him, and Tom starts to think maybe he should’ve listened to Rachel after all. 

**

Tom _knows_ he should’ve listened to Rachel. He’s almost positive he should put her as speed dial #1 in his cell. But he refuses, absolutely _refuses_ , to wimp out and call her for advice when he’s on a date with his long-term boyfriend. 

Tommy’s fiddling with the edges on his menu. His gaze won’t leave the pages, and when he finally does stop picking at what Tom’s starting to think is actual leather on the cover, he’s pulling at his collar or at the shoulders of his jacket. The jacket is tighter across his shoulders since the last time he wore it and he’d refused to wear a tie, because how was he supposed to know Tom would drag him to a place like this. 

And Tom’s not exactly feeling comfortable either. He’s fully aware that his hair is probably sticking up in the back from their subway ride and walk over, and his tie is more than a few years old and ragged compared to the bowties and silk ties the men around him are wearing. And the menu… 

“It’s all Italian.” 

“Uh… apparently,” Tom mumbles. 

Tommy’s squinting at the menu and frowning. “I’m a little rusty,” he says. His leg is bouncing up and down under the table, and Tom sees that his hand resting at the bottom of his menu is clenched in a fist. 

“Never learned it myself,” Tom says, making his tone light. It earns him a grunt from Tommy, and a glance accompanied by a tiny smirk. 

“Then we’re kinda screwed, Hansen.” 

Tom nods, concedes, “Yeah, probably.”

Their waiter, thankfully, chooses that moment to come over. And she speaks English and all the specials she lists are also in English and Tom thinks that the date might be salvageable. 

Except when the time comes for Tommy to order, his face is blank and he’s resolutely not looking at her. 

“I’m still training,” he tells Tom. 

Tom’s mind goes blank. “Yeah,” he says, confused. “You always are.” 

Tommy’s quiet for a moment. “There’s a fight this weekend.” 

At Tom’s silence, Tommy continues, “Frank’s gonna have my ass if I stuff my face with carbs now.”

And shit. 

“Shit,” Tom says. The waitress clears her throat at them, and Tom thinks _Well fuck, language_. And how could he forget about Tommy’s match being so close? 

“Uh…” he looks to the waitress. “Is your chicken parmesan…”

“It’s breaded,” she tells him. So is the eggplant parmesan, and the calamari, and every dish that doesn’t include pasta. And holy shit, Tom’s forced Tommy into an anniversary dinner where he can’t eat. And probably doesn’t even realize it’s an anniversary dinner to begin with. 

Which… maybe that’s a good thing, the way things are turning out. 

“Do you have soup?” Tom asks, half joking. It’s a last resort, and a poor one, because Tommy is not a particular fan of soup.

“We do,” the waitress says. “Minestrone, with—”

“I’ll have that,” Tommy breaks in. His leg is jittering more quickly, and he closes his menu resolutely before sliding it over to the edge of the table. 

The waitress looks at Tom next, and he closes his menu and feels like a douche when he orders the pasta in clam sauce. 

“Very good,” she says, and collects their menus. “Your dinner will be out shortly.”

She leaves, but a moment later is back with a basket of bread. The bread is wonderfully golden, and Tom can feel the heat coming off it in waves, carrying the heavy scent of bread that’s fresh-baked right out of the oven.

Tommy’s leg goes still under the table, and Tom looks up to see him staring at the basket, jaw tight in what must be a Herculean effort not to give in to his ill-fated love of bread and reach out and break his diet regime. 

Tom almost knocks his empty wine glass over as he reaches for the basket. 

“We don’t need this.” His voice is too loud, too hasty, and the couple from two tables over looks his way. “Thanks.” 

The waitress nods, says something Tom’s not quite listening to, and takes the bread away. 

Tom looks over at Tommy, not sure what he’s expecting to see. Tommy’s eyebrow is raised, and his gaze flickers to the wine glass that Tom almost knocked over. 

“Shut up,” Tom mumbles, and thinks he could use something to fill up the empty wine glass right about now. 

**

Tom feels like an ass. And a shitty boyfriend. Tommy’s bowl of soup had been surprisingly small for the price Tom’s sure the restaurant is charging for it. And Tommy had eaten the vegetables and drank the broth, but it’s a piss poor dinner, as far as Tom’s concerned. Especially since Tom’s plate is still mostly piled high with spaghetti and clams, while Tommy had practically had to tip his bowl back to get what he could eat out of his meal. But Tom’s finding it hard to finish twirling his spaghetti around his fork and actually eat another bite of it. 

The wine’s not bad, though. At least that was something they could both order and enjoy. Even if it was a little dry for both their tastes. 

Tom’s still swirling his spaghetti around on his plate when Tommy shifts across the table from him. Neither of them have spoken for a handful of minutes. Tom still feels awkward in this place, even more so by the headspace he can’t help put himself in when he thinks of how Tommy must feel in here, in a place that’s stuffy and rich and only has menus in another language. It’s not their scene at all. 

Tom should’ve done more research. Or listened to his fourteen-year-old sister and forgotten the entire traditional anniversary date thing to begin with. 

“So,” Tommy’s voice breaks Tom out of his thoughts. “You gonna finish your dinner, or just play with it.” 

Tom shoots him a little glare. “I think I’m done with it,” he says. 

Tommy’s silent for a breath before he says, “You hardly touched it. And I know how much you can pack away.”

Tom shrugs. 

“Why’d you pick this place?”

It’s the question Tom doesn’t want to have to answer. Not really, after he got it so wrong. Again. 

“I told you.”

“Really, though.” Tommy’s foot finds Tom’s under the table and nudges it. “No co-worker bullshit.”

Tom sighs and puts his fork down. He presses his back against his chair and says, “I thought it’d be nice. Something… romantic or whatever.” A wave of heat sweeps up his neck, and the blush only deepens when he acknowledges he's blushing in front of Tommy after all this time. 

When he looks up, he sees Tommy’s brow scrunched in confusion. “As opposed to…”

“I don’t know, whatever. I thought it’d be different to celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?”

And yeah, Tom’s an idiot. “Nothing.”

“It’s not nothing, Hansen. For all…” he waves vaguely at the restaurant around them. 

Tom shakes his head. “Forget it.” He looks around them for their waitress. “Wanna get out of here?” 

Tommy doesn’t respond. Tom startles when a moment later Tommy pushes back his chair and stands. Tom has a brief flash of Tommy uncharacteristically shepherding them out of the restaurant in his haste to leave such a terrible date behind. But instead, he’s grabbing his chair by its back and dragging it around the table to drop right beside Tom’s. And then he’s sitting down and Tom feels Tommy’s solid bulk settling in beside him. He slings an arm around the back of Tom’s chair, and Tom can feel the heat of his arm as it presses against the back of his shoulders. 

“Not yet. You’re paying for this shit, might as well eat it.” He grabs up Tom’s fork and pokes at one of the clams with it before he spears it with the prongs and brings it up to Tom’s face. “Open.”

Tom slaps at Tommy’s hand, glancing around at the other diners. But when he looks at Tommy, Tommy’s grinning. 

“Don’t cause a scene, Hansen.” 

Tom huffs. “Shut up.” To spite him, or maybe in a last ditch effort to make Tommy feel better after this wreck of a date, Tom grabs the fork from Tommy and stuffs it into his mouth. 

He feels, rather than hears, Tommy’s grunt of laughter pressed against his side. 

Tom relaxes a little, he can’t help it when Tommy’s so close and so large. It’s like an automatic barrier against whatever else is in the near vicinity. Including what’s in his own head at times. Tom’s not too proud to admit that. He sighs and leans a little more resolutely into Tommy’s side. 

Tommy’s free hand slides down between them and bumps Tom’s hip. Tom nearly jumps up when it slides into his pocket next, but Tommy’s arm around his shoulders keeps him seated. 

“What the hell—” He looks down and sees Tommy’s hand slip out of his pocket, phone tucked in his grasp. “What are you doing?”

“Checking something.” 

He watches as Tommy unlocks his phone, then flips through the screens until he finds and opens the calendar. 

“Forget what day it is, Riordan?” he says, pushing into Tommy’s side a little. 

Tommy smiles. “I wasn’t hit that hard in training today,” he says. “No.” He taps on the date and shows Tom the screen. His face goes red when he sees the tiny red heart on the screen filling up the day’s schedule. 

“You must really love the first day of spring,” Tommy says. 

“Obviously. You wear less when the temperature starts cranking up.” 

Tommy hums, and flicks his wrist down when Tom makes a grab for his phone. “I’d wear less whenever you’d ask.” His arm tightens around Tom. He starts clicking on the screen, flicking back month by month until he comes to March of the previous year. On the screen in the box for March 20 is written “Tommy, dinner and movie. Date??” and beside it, in the next day, is a big grinning smiling face. 

Tommy tilts the screen a little so Tom can see better what he’s found. Not that he needs reminding. 

“Yeah, it was a date,” Tommy says. He clicks out of the calendar and puts the phone on the table. “But not our first one.”

“It was the first I could remember. That we called a date,” Tom says. He’s definitely feeling a little stupid now. But Tommy’s hand is absently rubbing at Tom’s his bicep where it hooks over his shoulder. 

“I’ve always been dating you, Hansen,” Tommy says. And his voice is low and warm, and Tom’s pretty sure if he’d been any farther away he wouldn’t have heard it, it’s so low. “One way or other.” 

Tom feels something loosen in his chest as he begins to smile. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Tommy says. “And we don’t need…” he looks up at the restaurant, gaze sweeping around to the wall sconces and candle light and well-dressed patrons. 

“Yeah,” Tom mumbles. “Okay, I get it.” 

And Tom’s… okay with that. Great with that, in fact, when Tommy cracks a smile and presses a sloppy kiss to the corner of his mouth. The restaurant full of people be damned. Tom laughs helplessly at that, a bit silly with relief. 

“Now are you gonna finish this or not?” 

It takes Tom a moment to realize Tommy’s poking at his dinner again. 

“Umm,” he hums. 

Tommy spears another clam with the fork. But instead of holding it up for Tom again, he puts it in his own mouth. The grimace that breaks over his face as he starts chewing makes Tom laugh again. 

“Don’t you dare spit that out,” he warns. Tommy shoots him a look and then forces himself to swallow. Tom can see the effort it takes him. He immediately reaches for Tom’s wine glass and drains it. 

“Never again, Hansen,” he warns, and his words come out raspy. 

“Yeah, no. Never again,” Tom agrees. He’s grinning, and he knows a few patrons are glancing over their way, but he suddenly doesn’t care. Not in the least. Because Tommy is reaching for his own wine glass across the table and trying to chase the taste of the clam from his mouth, but his face is also clear of the doubt and miserable awkwardness of before. And that’s perfectly okay in Tom’s book. 

“You just brought me here to get me drunk off wine on an empty stomach,” Tommy says, his empty wine glass on the table now. 

“It’s your own fault that you don’t have the acquired taste for clams.” 

“And I’m not sorry about that.” He squeezes Tom’s shoulder. “Let’s get out of here. Get some dessert at home.” 

“But training. I thought you can’t have—” he stops when he sees Tommy raise his eyebrow. His leg presses more firmly against Tom’s under the table. 

“Ohh,” he says, dragging the word out unnecessarily. 

“ _Oh_ ,” Tommy mimics. “Exactly.” 

Tom grins when Tommy stands, dragging him up out of his chair with an arm hooked around his waist. He doesn’t wait for the bill, just drags a few twenties out of his wallet and throws them on the table. It’ll cover the bill and then some, even with the inflamed prices. 

Out on the street, they jog to the subway station. And as they wait for the train, Tommy pulls Tom close, his big hands grasped firmly around his waist. Tom grins and presses his lips against Tommy’s. 

The air is damp underground, the wind from a passing train kicking up smells and sounds all around them. Tom used to hate it when he first moved here, the way the temperature only seemed to rise hotter and hotter if it wasn’t overwhelmed by rain. But the heat of spring is creeping in now, not too oppressive yet; an even temperature without the smog of summer or the rains of winter. It’s sure and steady, at least for a bit, and when Tommy drags him closer and deepens their kiss, the heat presses deeper into his skin and Tom shivers with it and lets it in.


End file.
